


Unhappy Ending Looks Nice You

by Lina (lookslikelove)



Category: Arthurian Mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-19
Updated: 2007-12-19
Packaged: 2018-01-25 02:42:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1627322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lookslikelove/pseuds/Lina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something of a missing scene twist on the tale of Lancelot & Guinevere, set in the era of Vietnam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unhappy Ending Looks Nice You

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Meltha

 

 

 _"Oh, life was supposed to be a film_  
Was supposed to be a thriller  
Was supposed to end in fire  
But life could be nothing but a joke  
A sentimental little con  
Where's my unhappy ending gone?"  
-Life 2: The Unhappy Ending, Stars

There was time when they used to be happy; you really have to understand that.

Genuinely happy, the sweet sort that looks perfect both up close and far away, and maybe  
it is, maybe it was, maybe it just went away. They had happy, you have to understand  
that, with his perfect smile and the fact that even now, with the perfect faraway happy  
kind of broken and not as perfect, he still loves her. He probably always will.

That's probably were it gets dangerous, troublesome even.

If they had never had that perfect, seemingly endless happy then she wouldn't be feeling  
the way that she does now. Wouldn't be doing what she is doing. All moonlight and tiki  
lights and wind in her hair. The cut of her skirt is indecent or so her mother would say,  
showing off too much leg, but she's got good legs, has always had good legs, and well,  
even if she's hiding and not hiding out here, she likes to at least feel pretty.

The moonlight reflects off the pool and she looks at that, and not at the actual thing and  
wonders, the simple act of thinking, and it feels like she's betraying him. The worst part  
is that this time she hasn't even done anything at all this time.

_The heart is just a muscle, it clenches, it folds, it bends and breaks. And sometimes  
you have to let it go._

She doesn't want to, she really doesn't know if she can. If she even knows how.

There's a war going on, outside the walls of their perfect lives and maybe they got  
married too young, too na*ve, too innocent, when battlefields and protests all had to do  
with people those radicals who weren't quite them, not really and letters that started with  
V. She loves him, she does, and the more she says it out loud and in her head, the more  
she thinks that she believes it again.

"Of all the places, I knew I'd find you out here."

His voice almost causes her to drop her drink, but instead she catches it before she has a  
chance to let it go, holding onto it a bit too tight as she looks up, doe-eyes wide. Staring.  
They've not been caught.

But they could be.

"I'm not hiding."

There's nothing to hide from, not really, her sadness that no one really sees is her own,  
that quiet desperation that is common for girls like her just hangs around like a mist in the  
warm still air. No one notices. No one bothers to care.

"I never said you were."

Except the one who shouldn't dare.

She shivers, like the temperature is ten degrees colder than it is, like her body just can't  
stand it and so it feels the need to protect her with goosebumps and tiny hairs on end.  
Something in the pit of her stomach twists and turns, like a knife blade or a flashback to  
riding roller coasters on Coney Island when she was five and free as bird (free again at  
fifteen and high as a pretty little kite), and it's a dangerous feeling. It's always the best  
friend, the one he sees at work everyday, the one he grew up with, called plays with,  
stood by his side from start until this end.

"That dress looks nice on you."

The words come out of his mouth and they sound perfect, as if they're meant to be said  
 _just_ like that, as if they weren't exact copies of things Arty said to her earlier in  
the night, kissing her cheek and telling her how lucky he was to have her. To have each  
other.

What she wouldn't give for a Valium right then and maybe a Scotch or two.

Instead she smiles, the corners of her mouth lifting up, heralding memories of when she  
used to always smile, used to laugh there was nothing else to do but that. It crinkles the  
corners of her eyes.

"Thank you, but it's not a new dress and you know it." She's never been very good at  
thank yous, but she's always been good at blushing when she is supposed to.

"I know, I know," he says, and his smile is casual, easy, as he takes a step towards her.

This shouldn't be happening, they shouldn't be doing this. But in the end, sometimes  
things are only wrong because right isn't an option.

A chorus of laughs echoes across the patio, over the pool, to them. Dinner guests, people  
intent on mingling, on forgetting the score. They exchange glances and he takes her hand,  
nodding encouragingly.

"Dance with me, Guin," and it's not a question, but a statement, the words encouraging,  
but an order nonetheless.

What would happen if she stopped listening to anyone but herself?

The problem is, she's of two minds about the entire thing.

"There's no music," she points out, allowing herself to be strung along.

"I hardly think that matters," he consoles, interlocking their fingers, a hand on her waist,  
leading her in perfect time to a tempo that's nonexistent. It's a perfect moment, like  
something out of the movies.

She wishes it weren't so.

Still she sighs, relaxing, resting her head on his shoulder. Several beats in, and it doesn't  
matter. "Oh God, thisÉyouÉit's perfect," and it sounds like she's praying quietly. "No  
one ever said it would be this hard."

He rests his head on top of hers, humming the song that's playing through his mind for a  
moment and she smiles, a tiny laugh in the back of her throat escaping her. It's some  
cheesy love song, something that no one ever really knows all the words to, but it's better  
than way.

"It's not hard, we just don't know how to make it easy," he says in a cool easy way, and  
she rolls her eyes, lifting her chin to look at him.

"Now, _that's_ a bad cliche in the waiting if I've ever heard one," she says calling  
him out, and he looks down at her, smiling and shrugging.

"You know you love it."

"You bet I do."

It's not meant to be this hard, this easy, this anything, and still she kisses him like they're  
not standing out there in the open where Heaven and Hell and an entire party can find  
them. Some things are worth being caught over, and with his hand in her hair, kissing her  
harder like there was nothing else, she thinks that this might be it.

Like all good things though, the moment ends.

She pulls back, head first, then heart first, taking a step backward, looking up at him.  
There are tears in her eyes and he goes to wipe them away.

"I should go back inside," she tells him, and it's almost a plea to ask her to stay.

He doesn't say anything, he just nods, because it's a feeling that both of them can't  
ignore.

"People will start to notice."

Another step back, and their hands are still clasped, still holding tight, when the backdoor  
to the house slides open. Someone has noticed. The most important someone of all.

She drops Lance's hand like it's fire, like she's been burnt, and she palms it against the  
fabric of her dress, as if to hide the physical evidence, still holding onto her glass with  
even more energy.

"Arty, what's the word?" Lance asks, clearing his throat, calm and cool, as she turns, like  
it's some sort of dance she has to do and she supposes that it is, as she moves towards the  
door, smile on her face.

"Game's about to get started or something like that, I just was wondering where you to  
got up to," Arty answers wrapping a hand around her waist as she kisses his cheek.

"Nothing, I just was getting some air, and this oaf you call a friend interrupted me," she  
says, and it's nearly the truth, down to the concern in Arty's eyes.

"Are you all right, darling?" He touches her forehead, always concerned. "Do you need  
water?"

She shakes her head. "Just a headache, I'm fine, let's go back inside," and she tried to  
pull him side, along, away from what just happened, from what might've happened.

"You coming?" Arty asks, concerned for everyone, the gentleman in the room.

Lance shakes his head, turning his head to the sky and the night. "It's my turn to take  
refuge, I'll see you inside."

They leave him standing there, drinking and staring at the moon. It's always in pair, and  
it really should be three. But when they're playing by the rules of some other game,  
nothing stands a chance.

Especially not her heart.

 


End file.
